


i wanted you (to love me like you used to do)

by guineaDogs



Category: South Park
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Break Up, M/M, POV Second Person, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:40:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23520205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guineaDogs/pseuds/guineaDogs
Summary: Some relationships have expiration dates. You can ignore all the signs, you can do everything in your power to prolong it, but it doesn't change the inevitable. Kyle and Stan learn about this the hard way.
Relationships: Kyle Broflovski/Stan Marsh
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	i wanted you (to love me like you used to do)

**Author's Note:**

> i know there's other things some of you have been waiting on and i promise i will continue those things but sometimes you just gotta write the sad shit so it's not internalized. also, insp by the mountain goats song, "the mess inside." 
> 
> if you're active on twitter, you can yell at me about it @ guineadogs, and you can find me on tumblr under the same handle for my writing sideblog, or @ thaumatroping on main

"I'm not happy. I don't think you are, either." A sharp inhale, an unsteady exhale, and it feels like a massive weight is sliding down your shoulders, plummeting to the floor of the kitchy cafe where you eat brunch every Saturday. In your mind, you can see it: an avalanche, a mudslide, all the pain and anxiety and uncertainty and  _ what ifs _ washing away, leaving you raw and exposed. You thought the lead-up would be worse. After all, how long have you lain awake night after night, the space between you cold and impenetrable? Months of questioning whether it's just you, whether it's him, if the problem is just in your head or if it's everything around you until it feels like the walls are closing in and you can't breathe.

Maybe you're just bored and it's something you can recover from, and for a long time, you're almost convinced that's what it is. It's just you, your own problem. Not worth voicing, not worth hurting the man who's been the most important person to you for your entire life. But you're almost thirty and it's finally settling in that you can't live your life this way. And for all of this—all of the fear, all of the stress and anxiety that it required to tell him this, it never occurred to you that it wasn't going to be the act of  _ saying _ it that would hurt most. It would be watching his expression falter. You know him too well and you notice all of it: the way his hand trembles as he discards his utensils on either side of his plate, the way his thick eyebrows knit in confusion as he leans back into his chair, looking as though he's been struck.

"With the food? We can always go somewhere else, we don't have to—" He's trying desperately, vainly hoping that it's about anything he can immediately fix. But it's not. He knows it. You know he does.

You shake your head. A lock of red curls has dislodged itself from your bun, and you can feel it bouncing against the side of your face. "With us, Stan." There's a twist in your stomach, a rumbling of bile in your stomach. The pressure is building, and you muster all of strength to keep the eruption at bay.

"Do we have to talk about this  _ here?" _ Stan's processed enough of what you've said that his tone has an edge to it. He's hurt, and by virtue of that he's allowed to be angry. But to you, he seems far more concerned about the optics than the substance of what you're trying to communicate.

"I thought a neutral, public location would be better to prevent—" You watch Stan throw his napkin on his plate, his chair making a loud  _ screeeech _ as he pushes back against it and walks out of the cafe. "—exactly this." The final words are muttered as it's now just you, and the curious glances of the couples at the neighboring tables. Fortunately it doesn't take long for a server to come back around so you can pay your tab and leave. You know how he deals with things, the way he turns to a bottle, or turns in on himself, seemingly indulging in feeling miserable. It clashes completely with the way you process things, the way you cope, so it's not uncommon that things come to a head. That there are arguments, and whomever is the most stubborn is the one left in the empty house for a few days until it all blows over. It's a patch job in making amends, with nothing truly resolved. Rinse and repeat.

Because of that, you're surprised to find him leaning against your sedan, staring at the ground with a forlorn expression as he keeps his fists shoved in his coat pockets. Your eyes meet, and the silence is overwhelming. Surely there are sounds around you—the chirping of birds, a distant car alarm, a barking dog, but you hear none of it. "Didn't bring my keys," he mumbles, quickly diverting eye contact. The keyfob is in your hand, though, so with just a press of a button you grant him the ability to open up the passenger side door and settle in.

Once you're in your seat and buckled up, you put the key in the ignition and immediately turn it over. The car comes alive, and a glance in the mirrors prove that the coast is clear. You can pull out of your parallel parking spot and head home. You put the car in reverse, letting it ease back just enough to give you some extra wiggle room, and right as you're about to put the car in drive, you put it in park instead. Leaning flush against the headrest, you watch Stan, and you know the moment you're home, he's going to evade this or turn it into something it's not. "Can we talk about it, please?"

"What's there to talk about? You don't love me anymore."

"That's not what I said."

Stan scoffs. "Sure sounded like it."

You take a measured breath, but you know that's not going to last for long. He knows exactly what buttons to press. "That's because you don't  _ listen _ , Stan, you never do. You just completely shut down, and decide that in your narrow worldview, there can't  _ possibly _ be a reason why someone can't be unhappy. Especially with you."

Stan guffaws at that, crossing his arms and fixing his gaze on the nearby sidewalk. "That's bullshit, but I'll take the bait, Kyle. Why are you unhappy with me?" His tone is dismissive, and the fact that he now won't even look in your direction doesn't help matters at all. He doesn't believe you, he's not accepting responsibility. Which isn't to say that it's  _ just _ his fault. You know it's not. But he's certainly not making this any easier for you.

"You don't talk to me anymore. We don't communicate in any meaningful way, we barely even  _ coexist _ . You're just there and I'm... here."

"We've known each other our entire lives, and we've lived together for what, eight years? We know everything about each other, Kyle. You're acting like there's something inherently wrong with comfortable silence when there isn't. Sometimes there just isn't anything to talk about."

"That's not what I mean. It's not like I expect a play-by-play of your day. But you don't tell me when something is bothering you. You make no effort to spend time with me—"

Stan's voice rises, filled with indignation. "We were just having brunch together!"

"That's not  _ enough _ , Stan. Especially when you treat it like a chore." You snap, feeling the tension building and constricting in your chest. As articulate as you are in nearly any other situation, something about  _ this _ makes it difficult for you to explain. Perhaps it's the fact that Stan has almost always been a blindspot, a weakness.

"Whatever." As expected, the conversation is over. Shut down. "Take me home."

There isn't any point in objecting to the demand. You put the car in drive and take Stan home. Uncomfortable silence fills the car, thick with tension to the point where you can feel yourself choking on it, imagining that this must be what it's like to suffocate.

It would be better if there was music playing, or a podcast, something or  _ anything _ to distract from the deafening silence. It's the anxiety that holds you back, the thought that if you take one of your hands from the steering wheel,  _ something _ will happen. That the sheer action of turning on the radio will prompt something even more devastating to happen. What could be worse than what you've already set in motion?

The only answer the universe has for you is uncertainty.

The drive is only about fifteen minutes, but when you're feeling every second, every breath as an individual moment, it feels like an eternity. Time moves slowly, the car moves slowly. Time reverts back to normal the moment you park in the driveway, though. It hits you abruptly, with the passenger door immediately opening, slamming, Stan storming to the front step of the house, using the hide-a-key to enter the small cottage the two of you share. The slam of the front door is muted, but the severity in which the welcome wreath on the door shakes is ever-present.

That's when the levee breaks. Your grip loosens on the steering wheel, sliding aimlessly downward as it all rises back to the surface, erupting with the knowledge that in voicing your unhappiness, you've sent everything you’ve ever held dear out to slaughter.

* * *

The day comes to its inevitable conclusion. It's a blowout. More painful truths aren't spoken, they're screamed. You know what buttons to press, you know his weak spots, and he knows every single one of yours. They're pressed and prodded. His beer bottle shatters against the wall, amber, yeasty remnants splatter over the wallpaper and slowly descend. The softwood of the bookcase beside you splinters under your nails as you direct your most violent anger on it. It falls. Picture frames and snowglobes shatter on the tile floor.

A question hangs in the air.  _ Are you fucking someone else? Is that why you hardly even look at me? _

He says fuck this, he's had enough, and grabs his keys.

As he leaves, heading toward his beat up pickup parked along the curb, you consider the merits of reporting a stolen car, or reporting a 'potentially' intoxicated driver. Perhaps it's the right thing to do, or at least trying to stop him from leaving right now.

But the bitterness has taken hold. You don't want to look at him. And as you grab a corkscrew and a bottle of sherry from the kitchen, you decide he deserves whatever happens to him.

It's hours later, long after you've finished the sherry and moved on to a cheap lambrusco, that you learn that wherever he wound up, he's alive. Beyond that, you only know he's drunk. Like he almost always is, but it's not lost on you that you have no room to talk right now.

You watch your locked screen flash with notifications. Text after text, and you can read enough without opening the conversation to know everything you need to.

_ kyle peleswee _ _  
_ _ i need u _ _  
_ _ dont do thaie s to me _

You know this routine, you have this song and dance memorized. Normally, when everything falls apart, you respond with a  _ we’ll talk about this when you’re sober _ . But you’re not sober either, and for a moment all you manage to do is stare at the text and try to decide what you want to say. 

_ Am I even sure of what I want? _ Citing past experiences, you always know what you want, and you always know how to get it. But this is different. You’re unhappy, you don’t know whether it can be fixed. You don’t know whether you want it to be fixed. That uncertainty is scarier than the possibility that Stan may never love you like you need him to again. 

It’s not something you can articulate, not right now. You’re not in a state where you have the emotional vocabulary to express anything, and all you can do in that moment is let it culminate into another fit of rage that results in your phone screen shattering against the wall. 

* * *

Sunlight fills the living room. Your eyes clench more tightly shut as your turn on your side. There’s a sound—at first, in your waking thoughts, it’s birds. A whole flock, just outside the window, loudly chirping to the point where you feel like your brain is going to split in half. It takes a moment for coherent thought and understanding to catch up with you, and when it does you realize it’s not birds at all, but the sound of shattered glass being swept into a dustpan. 

Your vision is blurry, your head throbs, and as you sit up, your stomach lurches, threatening to rise up your throat. The stench and visual appearance of your shirt is enough to inform you that it wasn’t the first time that happened since you passed out, whenever that was. 

What you need to do is immediately shower, but that requires standing, and given the way the room is spinning, you don’t think you can manage that yet. Instead, you focus on the only thing you can focus on: the other person in the room, kneeling on the floor. With a wince, you shift, leaning against the back of the couch. “Didn’t expect you to be here.”

His shoulders hunch, pausing in his sweeping as he tenses. He doesn’t look at you, and after a moment, he dumps the contents of the dustpan into a trash bag. “Yeah, well.” Silence. Stan stood up, picking up some of the books from the fallen bookshelf, which was now propped back up against the wall. “Anyway, you should shower. You kinda reek.” 

As shitty as you feel right now, there’s still room for you to feel mortified. Embarrassment creeps its way up your neck, and you manage to push through your dizziness enough to get to your feet. There’s an unsteadiness in your gait, a weakness in your knees, but you manage to get down the hall to your bathroom. 

You undress. The vomit-covered shirt gets discarded on top of the hamper, a reminder that it needs to be washed as soon as possible. But you have to come first, and the moment you step into the steaming hot shower, you’re able to at least feel some relief. The sweat-sick feeling washes away, aided by your expensive body soaps and shampoo. The dizziness is still there, your head still hurts, but little is going to change that beyond hydrating and popping Excedrin. 

The unspoken truth in this moment is you’re too old to drink until you pass out like that. Which isn’t to say that you  _ never _ partake in drinking. It’s just something that Stan has a stronger tolerance for, clearly, since he made it home by… You don’t know what time, but it’s probably sometime after noon.

Something’s coming. Once you’re out of the shower and dressed, you’re going to have to confront it. You’re not afraid of that. Emotionally exhausted, yes, but when the time comes, you can talk to Stan if he’s in a place for it. If he’s not… 

It doesn’t matter, not yet. The only thing that matters right now is prolonging this shower until the hot water runs out. You have to take this moment by moment, especially when you aren’t feeling so well. Eventually, the water runs tepid and that’s when you shut it all down, dry off, and continue the trek down the hall to your bedroom. 

Given the circumstances, appearances don’t matter all that much, so after finding sweats and a t-shirt to change into, you force yourself back to the living room, which  _ almost _ looked normal. You falter, eventually opting to lean in the doorway and watch Stan. 

The tension is palpable as he looks over at you. He’s frowning and his brows are furrowed in a way that draws lines across his face. There’s dark circles around his eyes, and he hasn’t shaved. In a fucked up way, it’s a comfort that he looks like a mess too. You watch as he places a picture frame back on the bookshelf. The glass is no longer there to shield the photograph from the rest of the world. 

Even if you weren’t able to see the photograph from where you stand, you would know what photo is based on where Stan placed it. It's the two of you, holding skis, clad in the appropriate gear. Not much of your face can be seen between the ski goggles and and the high collars of your jackets, but the lenses reflect Stan’s long arms as he’d held his phone up to take a good selfie of the two of you. Pagosa Springs, Wolf Creek, a few years ago. You look happy. Or at least, you’re smiling. But were you happy? 

You’re certain you were. Wasn’t that one of the happiest moments of your life, one of the most fun weekends of your lifetime? You don’t know what happened. 

“You know, it was fucked up that you dropped all that on me like that.” Your eyes meet Stan’s, and you find yourself lost in those currently dark blue-greys that remind you of stormy seas. “How long have you felt that way? Why didn’t you say anything sooner? I thought we were  _ super best boyfriends. _ ”

“I was scared.” Your voice cracks as you speak, words just above a whisper. “I don’t want to feel this way, Stan. You mean everything to me...but I feel how I feel. I’m unhappy. Things feel different between us—”

“We can fix it,” Stan interrupts, insistent. A completely different attitude from yesterday. “Please. Let’s just...try? I’ll do whatever it takes, Kyle.” A thought hits him, you can see it in the way he lights up, like he’s figured out how to solve this. You honestly hope he’s onto something. “We just gotta get our spark back, babe, that’s all. We’ve both been stressed and exhausted with work and everything. That’ll help.” 

There’s an earnestness in his voice that gets to you. You feel it deep in your chest, clenching almost in the way your anxiety does, but it’s different. It’s a cautious feeling, but one that’s almost happy, that’s hopeful. You offer him a weak smile. “Alright. Let’s try that.”

If only things were that easy.

* * *

Few things can beat the Vegas Strip. There’s so much to do, so little time, and nothing ever closes. It feels like you’re in a completely different world—and in a way, you are. Las Vegas operates by different rules than the small city in which you reside in Montrose County. It’s only about eight and a half hours away, so you set a date. A long, four-day weekend: leaving early Friday morning, returning Monday afternoon.

You know it’ll be nice: you’ve got a reservation at the Palazzo, you’ve got money set aside for slots and booze and fine dining. It’s the perfect time and place to fix everything that’s wrong. 

In the weeks since that post drunken-fight afternoon, things haven’t  _ exactly _ improved, but it has changed. Stan won’t admit that the love between the two of you is fundamentally broken, but you can tell he’s aware of it now. You’re not sure if that’s your fault, though.

Upon realizing your own unhappiness, you were certain that Stan wasn’t happy. But it’s hard to tell whether that’s the case, or whether he just fell into a routine. That he got to the point where he considered much to be an expectation, to the point where the emotional fulfillment didn’t matter. You don’t know, and he won’t tell you. But he’s acting differently, just a little.

You’ve known him since you were both in diapers, even the smallest change in pattern is perceptible to you. He hasn’t been gaming until he passes out each night. There’s the morning where he wrapped his arms around you while you made coffee. He nuzzled the side of your neck, one of his hands slid under the waistband of your boxers. You couldn’t remember the last time he touched you like that, but it reminded you of how things were before, when you were much younger. 

If that can happen, you think, as you glance to the passenger’s seat, maybe things can be salvaged. You don’t want to let go of this. You just want it to be  _ better. _ Stan’s dozing, resting his head against the window.

The sun rises as you cross the Utah state line, and you have hope. Because that’s the only thing you have left. 

* * *

What can you say, other than Vegas is alright? It’s the best few nights you’ve had in a long time. The room is better than you expected: there’s a California King that’s like sleeping on a cloud. The area around the bed is spacious, and that’s enough, there’s a half wall separating the designated bedroom area from the living room. You access it by walking down three stairs. There’s a full entertainment center, a large sectional including a chaise lounge that you’re sure could fit at least ten people. The entire back wall is floor-to-ceiling windows—with blackout curtains—that overlooks a massive golf course that has more greenery than anything else you’ve seen in Nevada. 

The bathroom is just as massive. The shower stall is huge with glass doors, the tub is large enough for both of you to stretch out in and still have plenty of room. The suite has three televisions and two telephones. One of each is in the bathroom. Never in your life have you stayed somewhere so  _ nice _ . It’s beyond opulent, and you’re determined to make the most of it. 

But after driving all day, the last thing you want to do is sit around in a hotel room, no matter how lavish it is. You need to stretch your legs, and the Las Vegas weather in the spring really isn’t that bad at all. You both agree that a walk is just what you both need. 

Your floor has its own lobby with eight or ten elevators. It’s not surprising, considering the sheer massiveness of the hotel. There’s quite a few groups in the room with you and Stan, and as you wait for one of the elevators to arrive to take you down, you reach out. Hesitatingly, with just your fingertips, you reach out for Stan. Your fingers graze against his, and after a moment, his twitch. His hand twists, his palm finds yours. Fingers lace.

Your heart races, and that old, familiar feeling is back. You’ve only just gotten here, and you’re certain that this was the move you two needed to make. Las Vegas is magical, and it will save you.

An elevator chimes. You step in, and moments later you make your descent. 

The doors open to another lobby that’s connected to a long hall. There’s a security person standing in the hall at a podium, ensuring that anyone venturing into the section you’re in is a hotel guest. Beyond that is a massive room filled with slot machines and a cloud of smoke that you can smell long before you step into it. 

It’s kind of awful, but the exit is just ahead; you recognize the entryway ahead of you as the hotel lobby, and just beyond that point you can get properly outside. You can’t wait—there’s so many interesting places to see, photos to take, things to do.

“Hold up, I wanna try out one of the slots,” Stan says, tugging you toward one of the penny slot machines. 

“Don’t take too long, it stinks.” Maybe the ventilation will be better in a different casino. This one certainly comes off more as a teaser arcade to draw you in more than anything, you think. 

“It won’t be long,” Stan assures you, and motions for you to take the seat in front of the slot next to his. You hesitate, but is this not one of the things you came here to do? You join him, and really it isn’t long at all: you stop when Stan wins fifty bucks, and that’s still a gain. 

It’s only after you cash out and head outside that you realize the two of you played slots a  _ little _ longer than a short while: the sun is low in the sky, nearing sunset. It’s jarring, but night is when Vegas thrives. 

“Guess that’s what happens when you’re in a room with no windows,” Stan says simply, but it’s clear in his tone that he feels a little disorienting too. 

You don’t get far on your walk with Stan before a Walgreens catches his attention. It’s the little things, you suppose, because of all the things you’re inundated with—the flashing signs, the cars, the foot traffic, the guys who keep trying to give you what look like collectible baseball cards of female sex workers—it’s the last thing you notice, until Stan nudges you.

“I heard you can  _ straight up _ buy booze from Walgreens. We have to check.” For the novelty of the experience, you go along with it, and Stan uses his winnings to buy a bunch of the small shot-size bottles that you both later stuff in your pockets to drink as you walk. 

There’s no urgency in the walk. If something looks interesting, you stop. You look around, you explore. You wrap your arm around Stan’s back as you position your phone to take a selfie in front of a fountain. Stan grabs your cheeks and kisses you. He tastes like Fireball.

Even though it’s nothing fancy, you settle on In-N-Out for dinner, explore more, and by the time you make it back to your room with Stan, you’re both sloppy drunk and laughing.

He kisses you before the door even closes, you pin him against it, but it takes no time at all for the two of you to transition to starting a hot bath and slipping into it. He leans against you, you hold him until the water gets cold. There’s plush robes, you both wear them and move to the bed, seamlessly transitioning between cuddling and touching with purpose and intent. 

You’re up late enjoying the company of one another until you inevitably pass out. The blackout curtains ensure you sleep late into the day, but it doesn’t matter. Time isn’t real right now. The following days follow a similar pattern: you indulge, you party, you fuck. Caught up in the moment, everything feels  _ better _ and like it used to.

But it doesn’t occur to you that this isn’t rekindling and salvation so much as it is a band-aid. That realization doesn’t come until you’ve reentered Utah en route to Colorado. A sense of dread overcomes you. It’s not the one that has you dreading Monday mornings and a week of work every week, in an endless cycle that was expected to continue for the rest of your adult life.

This is different. This is that creeping, insidious notion that nothing has fundamentally changed. You had a fun weekend, that’s all. You’re still going back to your oppressive home. It feels like color fades as your sorrow soars.

Still, you hope you’re wrong.

* * *

But you’re not wrong.

In the weeks and months that follow, it’s more than obvious. Distractions help, but for only as long as they last for as long as they exist. It’s like seeing a movie: for a two hour stent, you get to forget the world that exists in reality, and instead get to live in something fantastical. But the end credits roll eventually, and where does that leave you? 

Right back to where you were when you bought the ticket. As much as you feel like a lab rat, hitting that pleasure button over and over while ignoring the feed you need to survive, you know you can’t do this forever.

You don’t  _ want _ this to go on forever. You don’t enjoy feeling this way. You just want things to go back to how they were. But the longer this goes on, the harder it is to achieve that dynamic, even for a short while. 

That’s when you get an idea. You’re just going to have to do more to fix it, and what better place to do that in, than one of the places you were once the happiest? 

You’ve got the data to prove that the location was a factor with regard to the health of your relationship: you were happy in Las Vegas, you were happy on a day trip to Grand Junction, happy on a weekend camping trip to Dinosaur. Of course you wouldn’t be happy in Montrose; there are associations with work there, and work doesn’t exactly spark joy, even if you’re something of a workaholic.

You know you’re stretching it with this desperate thinking, but—

But surely, if there’s a place where you can recapture and harness the love and everything about why you chose to be with him, it’s Pagosa Springs.

“It’s summer,” Stan says, when you suggest taking a drive down. “It’s not like we can ski.” In a twist of fate, he’s resigned to the inevitable outcome, while you’re trying to hold on with everything you have.

“But we can still go there, and there’s plenty we could do. Rafting, hiking,” you say, while googling  _ what to do in pagosa springs in summer _ . “Or go on a hot air balloon ride.” Stan doesn’t seem enthused, but he relents. 

The drive is only a few hours, but it’s a breathtaking one. Granted, it’s kind of a no-brainer: most drives through Colorado are beautiful. The mountains and the trees are part of you in a sense, and there’s a reason why you still live in the state even if you’re nowhere near where you grew up. Something about the drive revitalizes you at your core. 

You hope the same will be true for you and Stan in Pagosa Springs. You rent a cabin along the San Juan River, and it’s nice. And just like everything else the two of you tried, when you’re busy with a fun activity, it’s fine. You’re fine. 

The hiking is fun and refreshing. The views are amazing. Rafting is delightful, and the riverbank where the two of you have lunch is great. You spend a good hour or so there, enjoying the food, the sun, the water. Both days, you return to the cabin a little burnt along your cheeks and the bridge of your nose, and a few other places despite your efforts to continuously reapply sunscreen as needed. 

In the moment, it’s worth it. 

The same can’t be said afterward. Maybe it’s because you’re both exhausted. But the spark and excitement isn’t there like it was in Vegas. Like it was the last time you were in this town. The realization hits you like a freight truck and leaves you gasping for air. 

Your palms dig into the corners of the kitchenette counter, your gaze unfocused. There’s something cruel about trying everything you can to improve something, to make what you think are great strides, only to be knocked back to square one. 

“I don’t know if I can do this anymore.” You choke on the words, but when your gaze meets Stan’s, you see in it everything you need to know to move forward.

“I don’t think I can, either.”

And just like that, it’s all over.

**Author's Note:**

> if you were like "there has to be a stan pov to this shit :/" yeah that's the other thing i'm working on right now and when/if i finish it'll be uploaded as a separate fic


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